Beyond Revenge

Nothing beat the penthouse view from the Bellagio Hotel or the soft manicured hands of Elizabeth Harding.

Yep, that Elizabeth Harding—the one with political ties in DC, skyscrapers in Manhattan, villas in Italy and the Caribbean, a sugarcane farm in South America, and this luxurious Vegas penthouse.

She’d spend a couple of months a year here, indulging in her favorite pastimes: gambling and fucking. Two things got Ms. Elizabeth Harding off—roulette and Rattler’s cock—not particularly in that order.

“What are you doing in there?” Elizabeth’s cultured but impatient voice filtered through the thick four-inch door.

Rattler glanced out the bathroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The room’s dim recessed lighting and the window’s angle displayed a panoramic view of the Strip lit up in all its glory.

Un-fucking-believable.

Preparing himself for round two, he splashed cold water on his face, shut off the gold faucets, and wiped away the water on one of the thick, plushy towels Elizabeth had flown in from Turkey. She claimed they cost three hundred bucks apiece. Rattler doubted all the towels combined in the fuckin’ clubhouse cost three hundred dollars, but he sure was enjoying them.

“Hurry up, I’m getting lonely out here,” she purred.

Elizabeth was demanding, beautiful, and accustomed to getting her way. It was the only life she ever knew and one that Rattler never imagined.

He reentered the massive bedroom in the equally spacious suite and sauntered over to the bed where Elizabeth lay draped in sheets she’d had delivered from who-the-fuck knew where and insisted the maids change every day.

Nothing compared to screwing wealthy young women.

They felt great, smelled phenomenal, and loved taking a walk on the wild side, especially this woman, who liked it hot, rough, and dirty—Rattler’s three favorite words.

Over the last two months, he’d enjoyed room service, in-room massages, a steady flow of premium booze in the casino, and Elizabeth’s private cabana by the exclusive pool for penthouse-only guests. Rattler was starting to believe he could definitely live the good life.

He left a few days a week for club business and to visit the Palomino Club, where his on-again, off-again, crazy-as-fuck girlfriend, Yvette, worked as a stripper. Keeping the two women separated with his usual line of bullshit came easy to Rattler, but it might’ve been time to take a breather from penthouse life. Lately, Elizabeth was getting clingy, asking him where he was going, when he’d be back, who he was talking to, and texting on his phone. Rattler had a severe allergy to questions, and popping a Claritin wouldn’t ease this itch.

Elizabeth’s sultry, hooded eyes ran over his naked body, and yeah, he was ready to go again. Her perfectly pouty lips curved into a smirk as she pulled his phone out from under the sheet, then waved it in front of him. “Some very interesting reading on here.”

Rattler’s heart did an extra thump, but he kept his game face firmly in place.

“Who’s Yvette?” Her bright blue eyes bore into him like lasers.

“Who the fuck knows, babe? I got random chicks texting me all the time.”

“And are these ‘random chicks’ also in the habit of texting you tits and pussy pics?” She flipped the phone in his direction to fully view Yvette’s enormous, round boobs. Liz squared her shoulders, making her flawlessly enhanced breasts sway.

“I can’t help what they send, babe.” Fuckin’ Yvette, probably getting back at him for ignoring her calls earlier. He’d texted her before and said he’d come by the Palomino Club later, but of course that wasn’t enough for Yvette.

Unlike Elizabeth, she grew up rough and wasn’t above playing dirty, but he’d been in tougher spots and come out on top.

Literally.